


The Unexpected, Undead Journey

by kettish



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, HRBB14, Hobbits Come Out On Top Every Time, Not a modern AU, Some mentions of drowning and claustrophobic situations, Tagged Major Character Death but I meant Undeath, Zombie!Bilbo, Zombie!Dwarrows, Zombie!Men, Zombie!Orcs, rated M for violence, tea fixes everything, zombie!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettish/pseuds/kettish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surely it was just a cat whose eyes shone in the window, Bilbo thought nervously. He opened the door to shoo it away, and stared instead at the milky, dead eyes of a baker's dozen of undead dwarrows who would then proceed to end his life and begin his undeath (as well as a rather unexpected and aggravating adventure).</p>
<p>Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014, prompt and art by majesticbagginshield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And so, it begins.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for majesticbagginshield on tumblr, who submitted this prompt to the HRBB:
> 
> Middle Earth Zombie Apocalypse AU – The Company come to Bag End on that fateful night, they break down the door and invade his house. Bilbo hears banging on the door and finds the zombified dwarves breaking in. He hides and manages to take a few down but he gets bitten and changes. The next morning Bilbo steps into the burning apocalyptic Shire and goes on an unexpected journey as a zombie. (Zombie AU set in fantasy Middle Earth not Modern AU.)  
> Could be through Bilbo’s perspective Warm Bodies style zombie or general brain eating zombie style. :)
> 
> I went a little sideways here and there from the prompt, but once I had the idea I couldn't shake it and it ran away from me! Sorry if this wasn't quite what you were after, dear, but I do hope you enjoy. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, time to post! Thanks to everyone who commented, kudo'd, or bookmarked-sorry for the confusion, and I hope it's worth the wait!
> 
> Written for Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014 on tumblr! I scored majesticbagginshield's amazing "Zombie Apocalypse AU" and ran with it. And ran, and ran, and ran!
> 
> Will be updated weekly since it's the holiday season and I'm busy as a bee keeping my business afloat and being super duper pregnant and a stay-at-home mom to a two-year-old. :)

It all began with Gandalf.

Gandalf. That blasted-

twinkly-eyed-

so-and-so! Bilbo wasn’t in much of a condition anymore to think of anything truly insulting for the wizard, and didn’t spare the mental effort. But how his condition had come to be as poor as it was rested squarely on the day the wizard came to visit.

It had been an awkward encounter for Bilbo, which seemed to amuse Gandalf to no end. From his “Good morning” to his flight back in through the front door, the whole conversation had been disturbing to his very proper, gentlehobbitly sensibilities. Adventures! Pah! He huffed in disbelief as he set his kettle on for luncheon’s tea and pinched some brickleberry tea leaves up out of their container and into his cup.

Adventure. Nasty things. And there were rumors that the hobbit settlements out towards Bree were being ravaged by a nasty illness-no sir, he’d be staying home where he’d be safe in his smial.

Gandalf had said there would be guests for dinner, though, not that he’d had the wit to tell Bilbo how many were coming, or indeed if they were coming for supper or dinner! Imagine if he had one set out and they’d already eaten. Nothing gave you indigestion like two of the same meal in a row.

What the wizard had been very specific about, though, was that he’d be here first, and to please wait to allow the other guests in until he’d arrived. He’d been rather insistent, actually, and Bilbo wondered what on earth that was about! Were they rude? Did they not speak Westron, maybe? Gandalf could be acting as their translator, he supposed. But Bilbo was certain that most dwarves spoke Westron as well as their own language…

At any rate, it was a foolish request, and a rather rude one, too, if he could say so! Imagine, a good gentlehobbit host leaving traveling guests out on the porch without even a good evening and a mug of something warm and a good nibble while they waited. No, his guests could wait in the den, warm in front of the fire, with a mug of ale or tea and a sandwich or some biscuits. That’s the way a good host receives his guests.

Decided, he nodded firmly to himself and set about preparing some snacks.

 

It was later in the evening-later than he’d anticipated, honestly, by that point it was past dark and he thought for sure his guests and Gandalf had decided to stay at the Green Dragon instead of coming so late!-when his doorbell rang. It was an odd sound, dragged out like someone had pressed it too long, and Bilbo sighed, imagining it was some of the younger boys from down the lane playing “ding-dong-dash” as they were sometimes wont to do. If they were particularly rascally, they might even creep in the back door while he went to the front and steal sweets from his table!

With that in mind, Bilbo went into the pantry and shoved the sandwiches and plate of sweets he’d prepared for his guests as high in the pantry as he could reach, then went to answer the door when it rang insistently once more.

As he neared the door, lights in the entryway already low for the evening, he slowed, a strange feeling pricking at the back of his neck and the top of his feet. There was a sussurus from the window and door, like the sound of whispers and heavy breathing, with none of the more bass tones one associated with people at one’s doorstep. He paused, a foot from his round green door, staring at the knob.

“Who-who’s there?” he called out tremulously.

Movement caught his eye through the window and in the meager candlelight he thought he saw faces, maybe even the flash of eye-shine like a cat. It was difficult to tell because of the sheen of the glass but Bilbo forced himself to relax, taking a deep breath in and whooshing it back out-only to jump a foot and a half in the air as the sounds of scratching came through the door.

“Just a cat,” he told himself, making his feet move forward to open the door so he could shoo away the cat. He didn’t mind them coming through every so often (it helped keep the voles down in his garden) but he didn’t like them hanging around too much. Nasty surprises tended to start popping up in his dirt if they did-not pleasant for himself or Hamfast.

He closed his hand on the knob and with a loud metallic clank opened the lock and door, and opened his mouth to tell the kitty to go home-

 

-only to gasp in terror as a group of...people...snapped their heads around to face him as one, focusing first on the lit candle in his hand, and then slowly turning blue-filmed, milky eyes to his face.

Covered in blood, bits of fur, and clothing, these, these, things-eyes that looked blind but focused with predatory intensity on his own, one or two with obviously broken limbs or joints...all of them armed, and all of them terrified Bilbo in a deeply instinctive way.

There was only a moment for Bilbo to take it all in, before he whirled, trying to slam the door shut, and dug his heels in as, as one, the sick, horrible things sprang at him with an unearthly chorus of howls, moans, and shrieks.

Bilbo shrieked himself as the door pushed in so fast and hard he flew across the room, and then scrambled to his feet, grabbing the fireplace poker and brandishing it at the ghouls invading his home.

“You just-you just stay back! All of you! Go on home, you aren’t welcome here!” he screamed, trying to look as menacing as possible and succeeding only in not wetting his trousers. It was the little victories, he would later look back ponderously, that made him proud.

The strange shambling things did not slow, reaching for him with blood- and gore-soaked hands that-dear sweet Yavanna, had they never cleaned under their fingernails in their lives?-threatened to grab and hold him fast.

Bilbo whipped the poker around, catching the flesh of a particularly large, once-muscular thing that looked as if it had gone bald. The poker ripped a chunk of its forearm clean off, and Bilbo shrieked even louder, dropping his weapon in his shock-then moaned low in horror as it didn’t even slow, just kept coming closer, and closer, and closer-

The hobbit whirled, ducked under the arms of a blond and brunet pair who had come close to sealing his only exit, and ran for the kitchen and the back door as fast as his furred feet could sprint.

“Oh, please, no,” Bilbo moaned as he stopped in the doorway abruptly. There were three more of the things coming in that way, one of which was exceptionally large and having difficulties getting through. There was no way he’d be able to squeeze past, much less fast enough to get away. Snatching up his cast iron frying pan, he smacked the closest one in the face-what a strange hat it had!-and ran without looking how he’d done back down the hall, as far between either door as he could get.

He paused there, panting, and considered the windows. No, too small for him to fit through, and he wasn’t sure he could get through before the things would pull him back in. He clasped his hands tighter around the handle of his pan and then he spotted the door to the root cellar and found a last, desperately hopeful gamble.

The sound of feet stamping more quickly than he likes came towards him on either side, and Bilbo flung himself into the cellar door and shut it behind him. His parents used this cellar once in a similar fashion, during the Fell Winter, and the plank of wood they used to bar the wood has weathered well in the cool and was still strong. He barred the door, shivering in his robe, and pressed his ear to the door to listen.

Groans and moans came into the room on the other side, and Bilbo’s breathing seemed suddenly harsh in the quiet of the basement. There was silence on the other side punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of feet as something moves, and then, incredibly, there were words.

Growling, harsh, words, they were, and not in a language Bilbo recognized, but he’s learned more than one language and recognized speech when he heard it. He gasped aloud at the realization and then slaps his fingers over his mouth at the sudden noise. The speaking continued a second before it stopped completely, and slowly the shuffles came closer to the door.

Bilbo stood, trembling, for five minutes as the door creaked and the shuffling continued, and then with a shrill scream his nerve broke and he went scrambling down the stairs into the main part of the root cellar to try and find another way out.

Of course there wasn’t one-why would you put an outside entrance to your food stores?-but Bilbo was beyond caring, beyond thought, and all he could do was scrabble uselessly at the wall while he heard the door break down behind him like it was made of cheap matchsticks. The things descended on him, and he turned to swing out ferociously with the frying pan, gibbering madly and catching two upside the head and putting them to the ground before the others caught his limbs.

The last thing he saw before he fainted (mercifully, he thought at the time, thank Yavanna I don’t have to feel what they’re about to do to me) was pale blue eyes and a fur-trimmed coat. He swung out with a final gasp, grasping a bead from a braid and ripping it off in an attempt to turn its head away from him, and then knew no more.


	2. Bust a gut and mind your fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo adjusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry ladies and gentlemen-the picture's properly inserted now! :)

It was cold when Bilbo woke.

His head swam in a strange, fuzzed-over way. It seemed dark, but for some reason it didn’t bother him much. He tried to groan but all that came out was a breathy rasp, and it seemed it wasn’t quite awake yet. So Bilbo did what every hobbit in the Shire does when they’ve woken uncomfortable, too early, and wasn’t properly up: he went upstairs and made tea.

Bilbo shuffled up the stairs, feet shoving aside bits of wood (why is there wood on the floor?) as he exited the root cellar and made his way to the kitchen. It still seemed rather dark out, maybe, as he couldn’t quite get his eyes to focus properly. Inability to get a coherent thought together notwithstanding Bilbo did manage to clumsily shove some wood in the stove and get it going well enough to boil his kettle, and luckily there was some water in the kettle still from last night. (Wait, something about that wasn’t right. He didn’t leave water in the kettle in the summer, it made the smial all muggy. Eh, oh well…)

On autopilot he pinched the tea leaves over into his mug, poured who-cares-warm-enough water on them, and sat blearily on a stool long enough for it to steep. More than long enough, really. He got distracted by a flutter in the window, and his eyes focused sharply on bird that landed there.

The movement entranced him. He had to see it closer. Up he moved off his stool, tea temporarily forgotten, and shuffled towards the bird slowly. It fluttered a moment, then cocked its head at him. His mouth watered suddenly as his hands lifted towards the sill, towards the probably delicious and juicy and beautifully alive thing in the window-

Off it flew, deciding he’d come too close, and he was left bereft and vaguely confused about what on Arda he’d been thinking he’d do with that bird.

Tea, his mind supplied slowly, and he turned back towards the mug and scuffed his feet against the floor as he shambled over to it.

He picked the mug up clumsily (were his hands still asleep? they’d felt fine a moment ago) and sloshed a bit of tea into his mouth. The warm liquid was lovely against his mouth, and he felt his head begin to clear as he drank more.

Finally, tea finished, he went to the sink and washed his mug and it was then he saw it.

A chunk of his arm was missing.

Just. Just gone.

Poof.

 

Bilbo may have been the first zombie in existence to faint.

 

Waking on the floor in one’s home for the second time in a morning would have been confusing for anyone, but Bilbo found he still wasn’t feeling up to 100% speed mentally, and it made it all the worse.

Upon remembering what caused him to faint in the first place, Bilbo slapped a hand over his eyes and groaned. What came out was hoarse and sent shivers down his spine. After a little while he’d worked up the courage to look again, peeking from under his hand at the injury on his other arm.

Nope. Still missing a bit. There was a hole in his nice dressing robe and everything. He smacked his hand back over his eyes again before frowning and looking once more.

That was definitely bitten off of me, he thought. There’s teeth marks. Why doesn’t it hurt? Why aren’t I bleeding?

And indeed there was only a small amount of blood crusted around the wound, and Bilbo found he was in no pain at all. It unnerved him so badly he almost fainted again, but he steeled himself and sat up, trying to process what was going on.

It all jumbled in his head-vague impressions of terror from last night, a strange almost-dream about a bird this morning. The first thing he really remembered was his tea.

As before, his body seemed to go onto autopilot as he thought: he got up after a bit, and changed out of his bloody robe and nightshirt. Looking at his nice, clean clothes, and then back again at his arm, he decided it wouldn’t do to get them all dirty and cleaned his (pain-free, not-bleeding, completely unnatural NOPE NOT THINKING ABOUT IT) injury and wrapped it in clean gauze before dressing for the day.

As he checked his outfit in the mirror as he did every day before going out, he caught sight of his face and nearly fainted yet again: his normally green eyes were pale, washed out in white, leaving only irises a pale seafoam green with greyed-out pupils that looked sluggish to focus.

Pale blue eyes swam into his vision and he stiffened, standing rigidly and gasping, as the night before came back to him.

“No,” he moaned, and the word was dragged out of him in the familiar, rasping speech of the things that had attacked him. Bilbo frowned, staring at his reflection.

“N-nnoo,” he tried again slowly, trying to enunciate more carefully. It took a few more tries before he was understandable and he felt rather silly over-enunciating, but at least it sounded right.

It was all too strange again suddenly. Bilbo decided to go check the mail.

  


As Bilbo’s feet took him to the front door, his mind continued trying to process what had happened to him the night before. Slowly the impressions were becoming clearer. Remembered terror stilled him for a moment and he had to take some time to focus only on pulling air in and pushing it back out of his lungs before he could continue on.

He reached the front door, which was still swung wide open from last night, and looked out onto burning and destruction.

His fence was completely destroyed at the gate. No doubt those awful things from last night knocked it over! Bloody footprints and handprints littered the wood on the ground and the door was hanging by a hinge. The poor garden plants were trampled beyond saving and smoke hung heavy in the air.

“Whaa-,” he started, stopped, and tried again. “Whaat happennnn?” Oh sweet stars, he sounded like he’d had some sort of major head injury! How embarrassing.

He stared out into the razed village and went out to see if anyone needed help.

 

Helping others in his condition was easy enough. They wandered aimlessly along the paths. He could generally take them by an arm and drag them over to one spot-he chose his back garden as nobody’s homes overlooked it and therefore they were safe there. He made tea for the first few and set out some biscuits, and they mechanically accepted the offerings with no hint of personality or understanding in their eyes. But as they finished their tea they seemed to wake up, and through grunts and groaned words they managed to communicate.

So the newer hobbits were served tea by the ones who had been in his home since the morning’s start. Everything seemed to be going well, though Bilbo was starting to despair at the lack of untainted hobbits. Surely not everyone had been-been-attacked and infected by those things last night?

The first untouched survivors he happened upon accidentally, heading to the Gamgees for more brickleberry tea as he was almost completely out, and he knew that Bell Gamgee loved it and kept a large amount on hand. (She loved it cold in the summers, with raspberries and strawberries added in for extra flavor, and just a touch of sugar-syrup. Bilbo enjoyed it when he was over visiting but didn’t ever feel like brewing it that way himself.)

The door was locked but he knew where Hamfast kept the spare key, so he pulled it up out of the dirt in the pot on the step and unlocked the door before replacing the key where he’d found it. As the door opened and he stepped in, a bit of movement caught his eyes like a sparkler in the dark and he paused.

“Haammfass?” he called out as well as he could. The movement again, snagging his attention insistently.

“Mister-mister Bilbo?” Hamfast said uncertainly. “Is that you?”

“Yeeees,” Bilbo replied, more aware of his slurring than he had been all day. “Go’ attacked. Sloooow noow. You?” Hamfast slowly crept out from the hall door, clutching a post digger in his hand and holding it in front of him defensively.

“Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast said, “you got bit? Why aren’t you acting all, all crazy? The others that were here before, they-”

“Teeaa,” Bilbo explained. “Maade tea. Fel’ better. Need mooore for otherss.” Hamfast’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Belllll. Drinks brickleberry. Pllease?” Hamfast’s brow cleared as he understood.

“Well, sure thing,” he replied, still looking a bit puzzled by the whole thing. He turned to start towards the kitchen and then looked back at Bilbo. “If you don’t mind, Mister Bilbo, could you please stay there? The missus and the younguns are all scared terribly, and I don’t want you walking in on them. Bell has the cast iron pan.” Bilbo nodded and shuffled his feet a bit in the doorway to indicate he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

With a firm nod Hamfast retreated and came back with a large bag of brickleberry tea. “Here you go Mister Bilbo! That’s all we have in the house.”

“Thaannnk you,” Bilbo replied, smiling. Hamfast stared and nodded. “Plllease. Stayy here.” Bilbo raised a hand to point outside. “Not safe.” This time Hamfast’s nod was decisive and Bilbo smiled again. “Need food?”

“We’re fine Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast reassured him, and then took a hesitant step forward. Bilbo stared, tension rising in his head like a fog, as Hamfast took another step and another until he was within touching distance. Hamfast was so alive and something about it was enticing, in the same way very fresh vegetables (sweet carrots cool from the earth, tomatoes warm off the vine, sugar snap peas just picked) or hot tea (good brickleberry, or black tea, warming your belly as you drink it) or good meat (this most of all-raw and bloody and savory and with hot greasy fat) was enticing. Bilbo swallowed and dragged his eyes away from Hamfast’s bared arms and neck with difficulty and focused instead of his friend’s steady brown eyes. Hamfast reached out a hand to Bilbo’s arm and patted it reassuringly before stepping back.

“Take care of yourself, Mister Bilbo,” he said quietly. “And for goodness sake, keep drinking that tea! I’ll step out later and go pick as much as I can from the bramble in the back corner of your lot so it can start drying. I feel we’re going to need a lot of it from now on.”

Bilbo nodded, swallowing hard one more time, and moved as fast as he could out from the smial, stopping only to make sure Hamfast locked the door and that the spare key was well hidden.

 

The next few weeks were hard for the hobbits of the Shire. Bilbo had been lucky enough to only find the Gamgees and other sick hobbits like himself, but he knew Hamfast and other healthy survivors had been unfortunate enough to find...bits. And pieces. Of hobbits and other animals and honestly Bilbo was so glad not to have done so himself. He understood better now what had happened to him-memories of the bird-dream and of Hamfast’s gaze as Bilbo struggled not to pay attention to how delicious he seemed, combined with tales of the remains of other attacks combined to make a horrifying picture.

But there was brickleberry tea, and eventually they’d found all of the undosed sick hobbits and fed them tea too, and the Shire adjusted to its new reality. Tea-time came three times a day, now, and the sick hobbits learned to keep a cup of cold tea by the bed for midnight wakings and mornings. No healthy hobbit went calling to them before noon, anymore-too much chance someone had slept in and hadn’t had their tea yet.

And there were still occasional accidents, both for the living and the, er, not-quite-dead. It took a long time for everyone to accept that living and not-living family members simply couldn’t reside with each other anymore. Families moved, and some couples separated, and the social geography overall changed.

Many sick hobbits had to change their habits as well. They discovered they didn’t heal. Pieces could be stitched back on and wouldn’t rot, but wouldn’t function anymore. Farmer Maggot lost a hand to a scythe when he tried harvesting and was too clumsy, and his dogs carried it off to everyone’s combined horror and amusement. (Seeing Maggot chase his dogs around while they playfully raced ahead of him was hilarious, but still-his hand!)

Fatty Bolger was the worst, possibly. He was used to eating a lot. But he pushed it too far one day, still unused to the dulled sensations in his newly-dead body, and burst his stomach. Nobody knew until they realized his food wasn’t going anywhere anymore...he would try and swallow and it eventually piled up his throat and would go no further. He had to try and pull it out, piece by chewed up piece, with a spatula.

Bilbo stopped eating for a few days but got hungry so he started again, but he was much more cautious than before and ate very small meals.

He adjusted to his new life as best as he could but little things began to irritate him. He was always bumping his knees and toes on the furniture and ended up rearranging. He couldn’t garden much beyond harvest and the occasional weeding because he noticed cuts in his hands and he was too clumsy to handle the more delicate tasks. He was sick of cold tea in the mornings first thing but was too stupid before he drank it to anticipate it. He was tired of being distracted by movement or by stupid birds or Yavanna help him his fellow healthy hobbits. He was sick of feeling like a monster lurked in his chest, waiting for him to once again be too dull to understand what was going on.

But the hair that broke the oliphaunt’s back came one day as he prepared a small salad for his luncheon. He was slicing carrots and was distracted momentarily by the movement of the stove’s fire and snick-

-he’d cut half of his left index finger off.

His finger.

It was in his salad.

In. His fucking. Salad.

Bilbo screamed, throwing his knife across the room to the sink and then taking the bowl of salad and flinging it in the opposite direction. He continued wrecking his kitchen for a short while, throwing tools and produce and little things like a mug and his salt pig and bigger things like his frying pan and his kettle across the room to crash into the wall.

Finally he ran out of things on the counter to throw and stood, stock still, and realized in despair that he wasn’t even breathing hard because he wasn’t breathing. Weeks had gone by now, and he hadn’t noticed he didn’t even breathe anymore because he had done so out of habit.

That was it. Bilbo was done. He was just done. And when he found those damned things that had gotten him sick in the first place he was going to give them a real piece of his mind! They’d had no business coming here, biting a chunk of his arm off and now they were responsible not only for that but for his finger as well!

He packed a bag, still fuming, and then emptied it as he realized he didn’t need half the things in there anymore. Some snacks would be fine but honestly he didn’t need to eat much anymore. He did pack a kettle and mug, for his tea, and as much of the brickleberry looseleaf as he could fit. He wrapped his finger-stump (still fuming mad about it but unwilling to let it get dirty and goodness who knows might be attracted to an open wound?) and packed extra gauze and sewing supplies just in case. Last but not least he retrieved the hair bead he’d torn off the thing’s braid that fateful night, hoping it would provide some clue to its owner.

He was about to storm out the door when it swung open and a familiar tall figure poked his head through.

 

Bilbo and Gandalf stared at each other before Bilbo snarled and launched himself at the wizard with the intent to let him know exactly what his guests had done. Gandalf reacted by shouting and swinging his staff at him, catching Bilbo right in the midsection and sending him down to the ground.

“Oof,” Bilbo grunted. He heard a rasping, metallic sound and suddenly Gandalf had a sword and was heading towards him.

“Ack!” he rolled over so he could run as fast as he could shuffle and stumble through the hall door to the kitchen. “No! Nooooo.”

Gandalf had moved to follow him, intent on finishing the job, but paused in the doorframe as Bilbo managed to make it to the stove (hitting his foot on the damn kitchen island again, when was he going to get around to moving that?) and grabbed the cast iron with a shaking hand and directed it towards the man.

“You staay baack,” Bilbo warned him, and Gandalf froze.

“Bilbo?” he asked slowly. Bilbo frowned, confused.

“Of courrse,” he replied, then lowered his pan slightly as he realized something. “Haaad my tea. Scared you?”

“Tea?” Gandalf asked in a weak voice. Bilbo’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“Tea,” he said. “Brickleberry. Hellllps. Allll sick hobbitss drink it.”

“You’re talking,” the tall man replied, sword coming down slackly in disbelief.

“...yes?”

“You aren’t trying to eat me,” he continued, as though Bilbo were a bit thick. That stung, as, well...he was at this point. But not that thick!

“Tea,” he replied firmly. “Sword down pleassse. Biscuits?”

 

It took a while for Bilbo to explain in his groaning and halting fashion but explain he did. When he told Gandalf about how it was the night he’d last stopped by that the attack had begun, Gandalf looked away and down into the fire.

“My dear Bilbo,” he said lowly. “I did not mean to bring such disaster upon you. I was unaware the dwarrows traveling with me would be unable to interact with other living beings.”

“You’re not?” Bilbo slurred in surprise, almost dropping his tea. Gandalf laughed.

“I’m many things, my boy,” he answered fondly. “But apparently, wizards are excluded from this plague. They acted normally around me as was possible, just as with their fellow dead, and I knew no different until I found them miles from here in a frenzy.”

Bilbo shuddered.

“At any rate, I did not know, Bilbo, and I apologize. But dwarves are the only race I’ve seen with this illness that are capable of rational thought after infection,” he continued. “You mentioned tea. Do you happen to know if this tea works for any other people? Men perhaps, from Bree, who have had the chance to try it?”

“Noo,” Bilbo admitted after a moment, feeling vaguely guilty. “Been-been busy. Here. Still accidents, and harvest.” Gandalf nodded.

“No bother,” he told the hobbit. “Now. Where on earth were you headed off to in such a hurry when I arrived?”

“To find the-he wass a dwarf?” Gandalf nodded, and Bilbo glowered. “To finnnd the dwarrf who did thiss to me!” Gandalf sat a moment, absorbing the information while he sipped at his mint tea, and set his cup down with a nod of his head.

“I can take you to where they are,” Gandalf finally said. “They were meant to come here and hire you as part of their group, but...well, things ended as they did. Now they are on their way to a mountain far over the Misty Mountains, a lost kingdom known as Erebor.”

“Good!” Bilbo said happily. “Nice to have companionnn.” Gandalf smiled indulgently before continuing..

“However, I have business I must attend to along the way. I think you’d be a rather large help, actually-I need to visit other kingdoms as we cross them and try this brickleberry tea for their sick. If it works...well, my boy, let’s just say Middle Earth right now is a bit of a mess. Many have died already from the illness, and many from the ill, and many who were ill have been dispatched at the hands of those defending themselves.

“This is a chance for you to help them.”

Bilbo sat and stared at his tea as he processed that, and then agreed.


	3. Decisions and Survivors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey itself begins, and Bilbo learns more of the world-at-large's predicament.

The road to Bree was empty once they passed out of the Shire.

Gandalf had taken one look at the bead Bilbo had offered as evidence of the dead dwarf’s identity and seemed taken aback, but told him that he did indeed know its owner. More than that he refused to say, instead turning the conversation towards the weather or the Shire’s recovery from the dwarrows’ attack.

Signs at the edge of the Shire warned of Bree, and also included a thoughtful note to dead residents asking if they’d remembered their tea cup and brickleberry leaves. Bilbo was darkly certain that none of them would forget, but patted his pocket for the flask of cold flavored brickleberry tea he’d prepared at Gandalf’s insistence, in case they could not stop for the night or were caught without a way to heat water.

There were a few fields on the outskirts of the Shire that had unfortunately had to be abandoned due to lack of healthy workers to harvest them, Bilbo explained to Gandalf as they passed a lush field of wheat that was obviously past due to be reaped. The sick hobbits could work for far longer than living ones, being able to get by with snacks and tea and very little sleep, but nobody wanted people to lose limbs and Farmer Maggot’s hand had been enough to make all aware of the issue.

They passed an orchard that grew sweet stripe nuts (peekans, Men in Bree called them) and was being steadily harvested by a brave group of healthy and sick hobbits who’d dared to go out of the reach of Bounders as he continued telling Gandalf of the New Order of Things. Jobs that sick hobbits could handle included the lighter, safer work, like baking and cooking (if they were mindful of the heat), laundry (if they wore gloves and were careful not to get too wet), harvesting of produce that didn’t involve sharp implements, sales at the market, and all manner of slower-paced positions. A very select few could do things like knitting large items like blankets, caring for livestock, and garden work with the more dangerous tools.

The problem was manifold. Sick hobbits were distracted easily by quick movement or too many living things, not to the point of violence but to where they weren’t any help with what they were doing. (Some could handle being around many healthy hobbits if the work was steady and slow.) Many of the sick hobbits (as well as their living family and friends) were concerned with the lack of healing, and had taken it to mean that they should avoid injury at all. Bilbo thought they had the right of it, personally. They were suddenly irreparable and irreplaceable. And finally, quite frankly, those who were sick were a bit slower and more clumsy than they had been in their health even when they’d had as much brickleberry tea as they could handle.

“So it is not a cure, but a palliative,” Gandalf mused as they continued on. Bilbo nodded.

“Better than nothing,” he pronounced carefully in grim tones. “Hard without it. Like you’re dreaming, only when you wake, it was really a nightmare.”

They reached the Old Forest that evening by hitching a ride with a group of hobbits with a cart who was venturing out that way for an apple orchard that had been abandoned before harvest. They kept a camp without a fire as Gandalf had warned they might. That suited Bilbo fine; fire was horribly distracting, with its warmth and flickering movement, and would attract anything out there that was sick and most likely not civilized by tea. Bilbo drank half of the tea in his flask before bed, and carefully set his mug out on a rock next to him and his kettle over a log, pouring his tea in the mug and hoping the familiarity of the items would prompt him to drink the cold tea before anyone happened upon them.

He curled up on his blanket next to the rock after carefully inspecting the ground to be sure there was nothing that would hurt him that he wouldn’t feel and shut his eyes to the world around him.

 

In the morning he woke in a daze as he always did, sitting up slowly and with a grumpy moan to convey his displeasure. It was bright, brighter than he was used to, and he made a mental note to replace his curtains, which were obviously far too light for the summer light. He fumbled around blindly for his dressing robe, growing more disgruntled as he couldn’t find it, and finally let out a “fuck it” grunt-groan as he sat back down.

His tea cup was sitting next to him (did he leave it on the bedstand? No, he must’ve stumbled to the kitchen already) and noticed the liquid inside. Good, he tried to grunt, reaching out to close a hand around it and bring it to his mouth with a sort f sour gratitude. The tea was cold, he was pretty sure, but maybe he’d made it earlier and gone back to bed? No matter.

He sat there a few minutes after finishing and slowly but surely remembered where he was and was grateful that he’d managed to get it down before a passing squirrel or bird caught his attention instead.

“Feel better?” Gandalf inquired, making him jump out of his skin. The wizard grinned down at him, eyes twinkling in good humor. “I must admit, Bilbo, that was far more amusing to watch than I’d imagined.”

Bilbo grumbled, not entirely up to speed yet, but was glad that he wasn’t feeling like eating the infuriating man.

 

They got going after Bilbo could recall where all his things were-a good test of his mental acuity, considering they were somewhere new-and began walking again towards Bree. They had made excellent time yesterday with the wagon but still had close to a hundred miles before Bree, and though a healthy hobbit or man could make 20-30 miles a day easily, Bilbo’s pace was slower. They made up for the disparity by going on late into the night and leaving early again the next morning, and reached the outskirts of Bree by the fourth day.

By this point Bilbo was out of food and Gandalf had even admitted to underestimating the time it would take to arrive. They were left with two choices: enter Bree, which was possibly very dangerous, or try and scavenge food from areas around it, which would take a lot of time.

“I can go,” Bilbo said with a shrug. “Sick Men only attack healthy, right?” Gandalf gave an affirmative, still looking worried. “You stay here, I get food, then come back. We go around Bree. Easy!”

“Be careful,” Gandalf warned him. “Men are different than hobbits, and none of them have brickleberry tea as you all do. Any healthy Men you find are liable to try and kill you on sight.” Bilbo shivered.

“I’ll try places healthy won’t go,” Bilbo promised. “Stay away from healthy Men. Be back soon!” And with that he strolled/shuffled off towards the gate.

Bilbo’s first problem came then: the gates had been sealed from the outside with hammer and nails and great planks of wood that had been torn from an outside guard building. He considered the problem with a tilt of his head, realizing idly that he hadn’t need a haircut in ages.

Well, there were only the two great gates in and out of the city but possibly there were a few smaller ones along the sides for foragers and hunters to go in and out of, he reasoned. With that in mind he began circling the town.

Luck was with him. Only an hour after he’d begun walking the wall he found a small hole, too small for a grown Man but big enough for a small human child-or a hobbit. He peered through, making sure it was safe to step inside, and then did so.

Bilbo had only been to Bree occasionally before for goods or to pick up an order with the local book store or to visit the Prancing Pony. He didn’t recognize the area he was in, obviously a neighborhood, so checked the position of the sun and made towards what he hoped was the main road. As he went he noticed many sick Men and Women shuffling around, moaning and turning unseeing eyes towards him a moment before dismissing him. Bilbo kept quiet, not wanting to attract their attention further, and made it to the Pony without altercation.

The door had been busted open, and dark handprints littered the wall around the door frame. Bilbo realized it was dried blood upon closer inspection. He did not touch the wall as he stepped through.

Inside was in even worse condition. There were the remains of a few Men laid out on the floor, scraps of clothing and flesh rotting around them, and Bilbo had to fight a wave of revulsion from immobilizing him and distracting him from his task.

“Food for Gandalf,” he reminded himself in a low mutter, and shuffled carefully towards the kitchen.

The cooking area had been thoroughly ravaged already. Survivors had apparently come through and gotten everything they could get their hands on, as evidenced from the lack of rotten food and anything sharper than a butter knife or lighter than a copper sauce pan. They had even taken the meat fork and ladel, he noticed with a little amusement, and chuckled before freezing.

There had been a sound.

He listened as carefully as he could, staying still, and heard it again. It didn’t sound like him, though, or the sick Men. It was quieter, more careful than that, and delicate in a way that suggested something lightweight had made it.

“Hello?” he said softly. The noise stopped, and then there was a single small thump, and he finally pinpointed it as coming from a closed door. The cellar maybe? He walked over as quietly as he could, raised a hand to the door, and knocked three times.

There was silence and then furious whispering on the other side of the door, and slowly, slowly, the door cracked open and a very large kitchen knife was suddenly pointed at his face. He blinked, staying still.

“Hello,” he said again, putting as much effort as he could into sounding normal. “Are you alright?” The door opened wider, the knife vanished, and he found himself pulled in before he knew what was happening and landed on his front with the door swiftly shut and barricaded behind him.

He got up, clumsy with shock, and looked around a moment before movement and then candlelight snagged him sharply. As his pale green eyes stared blankly at the little fire, two voices gasped in unison and he shook himself out of it.

Before him stood two human children, both female, staring at him in abject terror with that large knife pointed at him again. Bilbo realized what he must seem like to them and brought a fist to his mouth to cover a cough to clear his throat before speaking.

“My name is Bilbo Baggins, from the Shire,” he said. “I am sick like the Men here, but have a medicine that lets me act civilly. Are you ok?”

The girls looked at each other, unsure, and the elder one lowered the knife fractionally.

“We’re OK,” she said. “Sort of. We ain’t been bit.” The other nodded hurriedly.

“Sort of?” Bilbo asked concernedly.

“We’re almost out of water,” she replied uneasily, “but we can’t go out. They’ll get us.” Bilbo nodded, looking thoughtful, and looked around.

This was indeed a storeroom. Great casks of ale and smaller casks of wine or liquor were stacked neatly against one wall, and shelves with stores of long-lasting vegetables or other ingredients were against the opposite. There were a few apples left, what looked to be some sort of hardtack bread (presumably for traveler’s to purchase), flour, dried meats, carrots, onions, spices, and some dried fruits for baking.

“Back door to inn?” he asked, as an idea began to form in his head.

 

They had to act like him, he explained as he shuffled off his overcoat, his pack, and his shirt (to his embarassment-it wasn’t proper to undress like this in front of these girls, but he needed his largest pieces of clothing to help cover their skin and smaller movements). He had them practice moving slowly as they could and keeping their gaze unfocused while making their way across the basement floor.

“Fast movement,” he explained. “Looks, um...tasty. Sorry, sorry! Need to move like them. Cover you up as much as we can. Try and get out where I came in, and you can go to Shire after that or with us to Rivendell.” The girls gaped, blanching at his remark on their palatability.

Once Bilbo was satisfied, he loaded up his pack with as much food as he could carry and put it back on (and didn’t he look silly, in an undershirt and waistcoat and a great full pack). The girls stuffed their pockets too, and in a fit of inspiration Bilbo took flour to their faces and hands to dull the look of life they both wore. To his surprise it actually did work a little, and even better when he mixed a little water in to make a paste instead of a powder. Admiring his handiwork he finally nodded, and they left the cellar to begin the slow walk to the hole in the wall.

“No talking,” he reminded once more before they left the front door, and both girls nodded slowly as he moved out.

 

The first part of the walk went smoothly-both girls did well despite their fear and they were lucky enough to only meet up with a few of the sick Men. The Men slid their eyes over Bilbo first, and then the girls, and then shuffled or stumbled past.

They neared the living quarters and Bilbo noticed the girls trying to hurry their pace, and had to stop once and give them a firm look before continuing on, back in the lead. The number of sick Men increased a bit as they walked through the neighborhood as slowly/quickly as they dared and even with all that things were well until they were within seeing distance of the exit.

It was then that one of the girls gasped and stopped, and Bilbo stumbled to a stop, not daring to look behind him for fear of drawing attention to her. Before them stood a large man Bilbo recognized as the former barkeep at the Pony, and in a thunderstruck moment he realized this was very likely their father.

The sick Man had shuffled to a stop as well, and looked blearily around to discern the source of the unusual noise. The girls behind him were silent, and unnatural stillness descended as Bilbo tensed, waiting to see if he would pin it down.

Long minutes passed, and finally, finally, finally, their father moved on. Bilbo would’ve let out a breath if he’d thought to hold one, but thankfully had not, and slowly he turned to check on the girls.

They were stock-still as a rabbit in sight of a hunting dog, and Bilbo had a sudden sinking feeling that they were going to start crying as soon as the shock passed. He came to them as quickly as he dared, carefully scanning their surroundings for other Men, and then leaned in between their heads to murmur so they both could hear.

“You can’t help him here,” he said. “The wall. Go to the hole. Slowly. No sound.”

The eldest trembled, and the younger girl blinked as though suddenly waking, and then looked at him and nodded just a little to show she’d understood. She began walking, taking care to shuffle as she had before, but her sister would not go.

“You have to move,” Bilbo urged in a whisper, beginning to panic. She shook her head a little, then more, and then wildly, and Bilbo stiffened in fear and began pushing her carefully towards the wall. “Go. Go, please, go!”

“No,” she said, entirely too loud, as the younger sister (bless her!) was getting through the hole. Their father’s head snapped up predatorily from a few yards away and he began heading towards them with a purpose.

“Go!” Bilbo shouted, shoving her as hard as he could and hurrying her along. It took a few more steps before she understood and then terror seemed to grip her feet and she flew towards the opening and was out. Bilbo hurried as fast as he could to get out and was almost there-the girls pushed their hands in to reach for him, to help him through-

The sick Man grabbed him, ripping his pack half off, and buried his blunt teeth into his shoulder before he could get through.

Bilbo shrieked in shock, panicking at the feeling of being held and hurt, memories of his last night healthy in Bag End swamping him and dead dwarrows and he was trapped, trapped there again, and he went slack-

The Man stopped gnawing at his upper arm a moment after he started, staring down at the cool flesh in clear confusion. The quick-moving thing was not bleeding. It did not taste good. It tasted dead and spoiled and it was not appetizing at all. He lost interest, trying to move away, and managed it after a brief tug-of-war against the pack’s straps, which had wound partially around his wrist as he moved it from where he wanted to bite.

Bilbo lay on the ground, shoulder mauled, thoughts spinning in a hurricane of fear and confusion and horror and panicked despair. After a long while he managed to pull it all back into himself, looking around and trying to take stock.

His shoulder had been chewed on with both canines and back teeth, as much as the plagued Man had managed, and as a result looked a bit like badly butchered beef. A little bit of flesh still hung by a thread of skin and Bilbo wished he could vomit as he detachedly plucked it from himself and let it fall on the ground.

“No,” he murmured. “Time to get up.”

He levered himself to his feet and gathered the few things that had spilled from his pack. Still in a daze, he dragged it over to the hole in the wall and shoved it through. Then he followed.

The girls were long gone, probably assuming him devoured, or simply beyond what they could handle in a day. They had their knives, and they had each other, Bilbo thought sadly, and laid some supplies against the wall for them-two waterskins, and an equal share of the food split between them and Gandalf-with a button from his waistcoat. He had no paper on him to leave a note, or he would have.

It had been a long day, he thought tiredly, and reached for his flask of brickleberry tea. It was gone, along with his coat and good shirt, and his shoulders slumped. Well, he had the leaves in his pack with Gandalf, he thought with a sigh. He’d have to just try eating the leaves themselves until they could brew some more.

He began the walk back to his friend more battered and somber than when he’d left.


	4. Lions and Tigers and Trolls, oh my!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dem trolls be trollin'.

CHAPTER 4

 

Gandalf fussed over his shoulder when he saw the damage, and helped him wrap it up carefully to keep bugs and dirt out. Bilbo dutifully chewed on brickleberry leaves, despite the awful taste, and went to bed after setting up a mug with some leaves to cold steep overnight. They had camped outside of Bree for the night, hoping the two girls would find them, but they did not see them by the morning. Dispirited, Bilbo and Gandalf trudged around the large palisade to the spot where Bilbo had originally entered.

There sat not the original stack of supplies Bilbo had laid out but his coat and overshirt, only slightly dirtier than before, as well as his button with a small piece of ribbon tied around it. Bilbo’s shoulders sagged in relief when he saw them and he gratefully pulled his shirt and coat back on. (He really had looked rather silly with just an undershirt and waistcoat on!)

“Hope they’re alright,” he mumbled as he dressed. Gandalf put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“They sounded very resourceful,” he replied. “I’m sure they will be.” Bilbo wasn’t so sure, but knew there was very little more he could do for them to help them to safety, except…

“Just a minute,” he said, finding a good stick and clearing some detritus from the dirt path. He sketched a small map of Bree, and the road, and directions back to the Shire, where they’d be taken in and kept safe. (Fauntlings were fauntlings, even if they were children of Men, and no hobbit would refuse them safety and care.) He drew a smiling face by the depiction of the Shire in case they couldn’t read Westron.

“There,” he said, satisfied. That would have to do. Feeling slightly better about things, they set off, continuing on west towards Rivendell, where Gandalf had told him they needed to know about the tea.

Days went by of walking, occasional chatting, and stopping now and then to make Bilbo’s tea hot (a luxury now, and never in the dark where fire was so easily seen from a distance) or to stop and pick as many brickleberry branches as they could carry atop Bilbo’s pack. The brambles and leaves had to dry before they could be stored inside and took 3-4 days to properly dry, so they were only able to stop twice. Still, it was enough to top up his supply, and with Gandalf’s help he began testing how much brickleberry actually needed to be in each cup of tea to remain effective. Turned out he’d been using half again as much as was really needed, and Bilbo was glad to have found out around someone who could definitely defend himself.

It was on their ninth day of walking (and oh, Bilbo was wishing they’d found a pony-drawn cart or something similar to ride in by now-they were just moving so slowly) that trouble found them again.

They’d camped for the evening and finally felt that they’d put a safe enough distance from settlements to have a fire to warm their dinner and Bilbo’s tea. Gandalf had wandered off to see if he could find the owners of the farmland they camped on-their home had burned down, but burnt settlements were common enough after the initial spread of the plague. Residents had fled their homes, hearth-fires and stoves still lit and burning, and there had been accidents as sick Men (and hobbits) stumbled through after them.

Bilbo sat quietly staring at the fire, allowing the motion to captivate him as he rarely did. It was relaxing in a mindless way that little else was anymore...smoking his favored Old Toby pipeweed did nothing for him, and he was too wary of losing control of what little faculties he had to have ale or wine. But this-this was safe, in that it wasn’t something he wanted to devour and wasn’t something he could hurt or would hurt himself with.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so absorbed he would’ve heard the large footfalls behind him, or the grunting groans that were familiar yet unfamiliar to his ear.

Who knows how long he sat there with his unknown guests, watching the flames dance so enticingly? It wasn’t until halting movement entered his vision that he snapped out of it, looking across the side of the campfire to see grey legs as large as logs, connecting up to a corpulent torso that seemed rigid in patches and almost chipped or broken in other places. His eyes followed the line of its belly and chest as it stared into the fire until he reached its face, and in a highly unrecommended move, he yelped.

He did not realize what a mistake that was until its eyes swung over to him in an instant, snapping onto him in a way he recognized with a sinking feeling in his gut, and heavy hands landed on his shoulders to drag him away.

 

Trolls, he guessed they were from books he’d read as a fauntling. But these defied the descriptions he’d seen as a child; no book had ever mentioned that bits of them were stone, and flaked away as they moved like crumbling granite. Trolls had always been depicted as rather stupid, as well, but these barely talked above some sort of grunting communication that he thought maybe he got the gist of in a way but couldn’t be sure about.

They seemed determined to take him somewhere, and that heartened him and gave him hope that perhaps they wouldn’t eat him right away, tearing him limb from limb, as they’d often been said to do. The sickness that had fallen over everyone regardless of race or creed had obviously taken them too, however, from the familiar milkiness of their eyes and their distraction at every passing bird or sudden sound from the forest, and overall Bilbo had no idea what was going on.

Finally they reached a cave with boulders and a large rock outcropping. There had obviously been a fire pit here at some point in the past, but it hadn’t been stoked or taken care of in quite some time and no hint of heat remained. A small corral wasn’t too far from three large boulders where the trolls probably sat around the fire previously and it was there, of all bizarre places, that they dropped him. A few sheep bleeted in distress as they approached and tried to make for the gate. The troll simply dropped him into the fenced area without even bothering with it though and Bilbo stared up at the sky for a while, stunned.

The trolls made back for their fire pit and sat down, seeming to consider it a job well done, and went back to eating bits of meat and bone that had been left on their respective seats. Incredulously, Bilbo slowly stood, staring at the beasts and then at the pen. Then the trolls. And again at the walls of the pen.

Seriously?

He was still staring in disbelief as he shuffled to the edge of the corral and looked around. The movement caught the trolls’ eyes and as one they turned to stare at him. He stood stock still, careful to not even breathe or blink, and after a moment they went back to grunting and eating their dinner.

This presented a problem. Bilbo watched a while longer while they ate, and then turned to look appraisingly at the sheep. He looked back at the trolls and then, after a moment, reached out slowly and began to untie the gate at a glacial pace.

The moment he touched the gate however the sheep stampeded over, desperate to be out, and the smallest one squeezed under the gate well to the side of the small flock. In a flash the trolls descended on it and ripped it to pieces, bellowing in fury and in hunger he’d seen too many times before.

Botheration! There went his plan to simply walk out, unless he was willing to sacrifice all the poor sheep. It may have been the smart thing to do he supposed but somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to be the factor that caused all the wooly animals to lose their lives in such a horrifying manner.

Well. Surely they had to sleep sometime? Or...maybe not. He didn’t really have to either, anymore.

 

He was still stewing over the problem an hour later, with the soft occasional grunt of a troll or comforting flock noise of a sheep in the background. The trolls’ “conversation” had sort of trailed off after their latest meal until it was just the three of them sitting around staring at the empty fire pit and one or another making a noise every once in a while. Then, as one, they ponderously lifted their heads high and gazed upwards. Bilbo followed suit and found that the light was beginning to return-it was almost morning.

Well, now! Surely Gandalf would find him missing soon. Speaking of, he thought, it’s about tea time-good thing I’ve got my coat flask. The trolls had begun moving towards the cave he supposed they slept in during the day and he reached into his pocket to retrieve his tea.

It would’ve been fine, if it hadn’t been so close to his usual morning tea time, he’d later reflect. As it was though his fingers were clumsy and as he pulled his flask forth his metal tea container came out as well and with a loud metallic clatter they both fell to the ground.

The trolls turned at the noise and came roaring back to investigate, and Bilbo fled in sheer terror to the other side of the pen and was just getting a leg over when suddenly there was a thunderous crack, and sunlight streaming all around, and the howls of the trolls shifted into something pained and afraid. Bilbo fell arse over teakettle across the top of the fence and down back into the dirt, scrambling around to see the horrible brutes calcify and become stone statues of themselves, and Gandalf atop a large boulder that had been split in two.

“Gandalf!” he cried, gasping in breath for speech after so long without. “What?”

“Bilbo!” Gandalf called merrily back, “Good job! My apologies, I did not know you’d wandered so far from our campfire. I quite forgot there were still things that would eat you!” Bilbo gaped and shuffled off towards him, giving the now fully stone trolls a wide berth.

“Saved me,” Bilbo said, flush with gratitude and relief, as he reached the foot of the boulder his friend stood upon. “Thank you!” Gandalf beamed and then clambered down to meet him.

“Somewhere around here there may be a troll hoard,” the grey wizard informed him. “We should see what we may find-soon we will reach settlements where people still live, and we will have need of coin for supplies, and maybe pack animals.” Bilbo agreed and showed him the direction the trolls had been lumbering in less than fifteen minutes earlier.

The troll hoard stank. Badly. Even Bilbo’s amazingly dull nose was nigh overwhelmed. And no wonder; apparently, trolls got peckish during the day, and had dragged bits and pieces of mutton and Eru-knows-what-else in to snack on. Also they apparently did not believe in keeping their cave clean, in any way, shape, or form-there was a large back corner that had been used as a toilet.

Bilbo was almost glad of his condition at this precise moment. He was pretty sure that he wouldn’t have been able to bear entering the cave otherwise.

Gandalf poked and prodded about with his staff, humming occasionally in interest or going “bah!” in dissatisfaction, and finally his gaze lit upon a pair of spiderweb-covered sword hilts sticking out of a large pile of other bits and bobs. With a surprised and pleased “ah!” he strode over and pulled one out of its scabbard, revealing a beautifully crafted sword. Graceful curves accentuated its length and brought wind to Bilbo’s mind-powerful and deadly when it was strong, and this sword looked strong.

“This is Gondolin-made,” Gandalf murmured. “A better weapon I could not ask for. It is surprising that it has come to rest here. We will take this and the other, and some of the coin from the cleaner parts of the cave, and be on our way. Perhaps Lord Elrond in Rivendell will recognize them.”

Sweeping up the two long swords in one arm like Bilbo had often seen long-stemmed flowers carried, Gandalf strode off towards the exit as Bilbo scuffed handfuls of gold and silver coins into a spare pouch that had previously been filled with wayfarer’s bread, and was now emptied and ready to serve a new use. He straightened and pulled the pouch’s strings tight to keep the smell from getting into the rest of their supplies and turned towards the front of the cave.

Gandalf paused, sweeping some leaves and dirt off of something on the floor, and bent down to retrieve it as Bilbo shuffled up. Unsheathing the blade partially, he made a pleased sound and turned to the hobbit.

“Bilbo, this looks to be just your size,” he explained. “This too is of Elvish make. The blade will glow blue when orcs or goblins come near. You should keep it on you, for safety and for the forewarning it may provide.” Bilbo looked at him as doubtfully as he could arrange his face.

“Never held a sword in my life!” he protested, words coming out less distinctly than he would’ve liked due to his stress at the idea. “Don’t know the first thing about using it.”

Gandalf chuckled, eyes bright. “Hold this part here,” he answered, “and point that end towards your enemy.” Bilbo rolled his eyes but accepted the blade, and Gandalf stooped to help strap it properly to his hip.

“Now then,” he said, “let’s be off. Wizards don’t get where they need to be by dawdling, after all.” With that, he exited the cave and strode off in the direction of their original camp, and left Bilbo with nothing to do but resignedly follow.

 

It was two days later that Bilbo and Gandalf reached the Ford of Bruinen and only a few hours after making that crossing that they were stopped at arrow-point by a small but fierce contingent of Elves.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was planning on skipping the trolls, but the muses had other ideas apparently, so...ta dah! Sorry for such a short chapter, but I couldn't find a better place to cut it. The next one runs long if it's any consolation. 
> 
> I'm still looking for a beta if anyone's interested! :)


	5. Circular Designs and Clean Marble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell, Part 1

Horses stamped and cantered up to Gandalf and Bilbo, running dizzying circles as they penned the two travelers in. All the movement and light reflecting off their armor combined to great effect on Bilbo, and, he suspected, would have on most people regardless of their condition. He hardly knew where to look, which way anyone was going, and he had a passing thought that it would have been easy to attack him from any side at any given moment, whirling as they were and confused and lost as he was. Gandalf harrumphed a bit before finally drawing himself up tall and banging his staff against the ground to produce a concussive sound to drown out horse hooves, shouting at the riders.

“See here, Princes Elladan and Elrohir, you know who I am and are being rather rude! Cease this posturing at once and stand down so we may speak.” With an unseen signal all the riders scattered out like petals on an old rose in a stiff breeze, breaking up their formation in the blink of an eye and arraying themselves around Bilbo and Gandalf with no little amount of suspicion. Gandalf’s grumbling died down a little bit and he strode forward to meet the two dark-haired elves that sat astride their mounts in front of them.

“Mithrandir,” one of the two greeted him with a short bow, “It’s pleasant to see you, usually, but...you generally do not hold such ill company. We cannot let it pass into the valley-none of these creatures have been allowed in since the first caused the spread of disease.”

“And that is very wise,” Gandalf agreed, “but this hobbit is a dear friend, and has control of his faculties besides. He and his kind have discovered a medicine that helps fight back against the dark plague that has spread the length and breadth of the land, and I would introduce him to Lord Elrond so that he may test if this herb will also help heal your people.”

The two looked so alike as to be twins, Bilbo thought as he watched this whole thing take place, and he shuffled forward to stand with the wizard when Gandalf gestured impatiently at him. Two pair of silvered grey eyes stared intently down at him, and he stepped forward nervously to make his own introduction only to stop at a stumble when one of the guard loosed an arrow to land at his feet. Bilbo looked wide-eyed down at the arrow, at the princes, and then back at Gandalf. The useless man made impatient “shoo, go on then!” motions with his staff and free hand and Bilbo directed a glower at him to let him know what he thought of the whole affair before turning back towards the princes.

Not daring to move any further forward, he instead bowed at the waist in the best manners he knew and carefully pronounced, “Good afternoon. My name is Bilbo Baggins, of Bag-End. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Shocked silence reigned for a minute as the Elves stared at him and Gandalf smirked. Bilbo fidgeted a little in his nervousness and decided idly that the slack-jawed Elves did not look nearly so grand nor graceful as his mother had made them out to be.

Finally Erohir (or Elladan?) seemed to come to himself and blinked, and cleared his throat. His brother jumped and they shared a look that spoke volumes before turning back to Bilbo.

“It is...a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Baggins,” he said slowly. “I confess we are not sure what to do with you at this juncture. You seem well enough in mind, but we cannot bring you into our city and home and risk our people’s healthy further until we have spoken with our father.” He turned to Gandalf, who was relaxing against his staff and watching the interaction with keen interest. “Mithrandir. We will go and discuss with our father what must be done. Will you and...Mr. Baggins...be safe here for an evening? We can be back by tomorrow to either escort you around Imladris or into the city, whichever Lord Elrond decrees.”

“We will be fine here for the evening,” Gandalf agreed with a small smile.

“We will leave to guards here with you for the evening, to insure your safety-and that of our people,” one of the princes said, and at that two of the force walked their horses a few steps forward. Another signal was issued that Bilbo didn’t see and the rest of the troop peeled off to canter towards the center of the valley, on their way to Rivendell.

That left Bilbo and Gandalf alone with two mounted elvish warriors, both of whom eyed the hobbit with open distrust.

Bilbo cleared his throat.

The Elves arms both reached for their weapons before they could stop themselves, twitching and strung tighter than their bow strings.

Gandalf sighed, and went to find a spot to sit and have a pipe.

 

It was hours before the two guards-Hadron and Aníror-would stop subtly jumping every time Bilbo moved unexpectedly. (And that was difficult for him to do, really-part of the curse of his sickness was that every move had to be initiated with full thought; rarely did he have an unconscious movement except when he was reaching his tea-time and needed a cuppa.) To try and reassure them he explained further about the tea, with Gandalf’s occasional input supporting his story, and was sure to take sips of it often in their sight.

Lovely luxury! They could have a campfire again, within the borders of the elves’ territory and protected by two armed guards that needed little sleep and had excellent hearing and sight. Bilbo sighed contentedly, enjoying the heat that momentarily warmed his throat and stomach. Little as he could feel it, it was still a pleasure, and he reveled in it.

Hadron and Aníror seemed to relax when he pulled out biscuits he’d hoarded from the Shire and offered to share, apologizing for their staleness. Hadron, who had long, dark hair neatly braided out of his face to keep his sight clear and to keep it out of the way of his bow, reached out slowly and took one, keeping an eye on Bilbo’s face as he did so.

“My thanks, Master Baggins,” he murmured as he thoughtfully chewed. Bilbo waved a hand at that.

“Should be thanking you, Master Hadron,” he demurred, “First time in days I’ve had hot tea. Missed it!” Hadron and Aníror laughed softly, and Aníror reached forward to snag a biscuit too.

“Is it difficult?” Aníror asked curiously after a while. Bilbo cocked a head and pushed his eyebrows up in question. “Being, ah...dead,” Aníror clarified. Bilbo recoiled.

“Not dead!” he sputtered. “Just-just sick.” The two elves swapped a glance.

“You do not heal, do you?” Hadron asked. “Or need to eat, really? Or sleep?” Bilbo felt something shrink further in his chest with each question and he busied himself swirling the tea in his cup.

“Master Baggins,” Aníror said, not unkindly, “Your skin has the pallor of death, and to Elven-sight you are as a deer fresh slaughtered and not yet butchered, or a bouquet of flowers which has been in water for days but just begins to wither. You are dead. Your body has just not yet laid down yet.”

Bilbo’s mind washed with panic and horror as he turned to look at Gandalf, who was glowering at the elves.

“Gandalf-” Bilbo choked out, pleading. The wizard turned to look at Bilbo and there was reluctant confirmation in his eyes.

“No,” Bilbo refused, shaking his head slowly. “No, no, please, Gandalf. Not true. Just sick. The tea helps. Dead hobbits do not walk, or talk, or drink tea. Please.”

Gandalf’s gentle reluctance transmuted into sorrow as he set aside his pipe and reached up to take off his hat. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said quietly after a while. “But what they say is true. To all eyes who may see such things, you are dead.

“But!” he continued, “you are indeed walking, talking, gardening and taking a journey. No dead thing naturally does this. All these things point to magic, Bilbo. Dark magic, for no good spellcaster tries to bring back the dead.” Bilbo’s horror deepened.

“Dark magic!” he sputtered. “Why I-no, can’t be!” Gandalf simply looked at him. “But…” The wizard shook his head.

“There is nothing for it, at this rate,” he told him. “All we can do is continue forward and try to fight this darkness. Your tea for some reason has properties that fight it. It is because of this that I have hope that it will work for other races as it has for yours.”

Troubled, Bilbo nodded, and sat back down by the fire moodily. Hadron and Aníror, for their parts in the argument, seemed equal parts sorry they’d upset their guests and troubled by the dark aspects of the plague that Gandalf had brought to light.

“Best get some rest,” Gandalf finally said as the fire burnt down. “Bilbo, be sure to have a full cup before bed in case one of our guard wakes you.” Bilbo nodded, brows furrowing in confusion a moment, before mentally shrugging and reaching for his mug.

The warm tea, bright stars, and gentle murmur of a nearby stream combined to make for a relaxing evening, and he shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep despite his troubles.

 

In the morning Gandalf came over and prodded Bilbo awake carefully from his blind side, making sure he was facing a warm mug of tea (courtesy said wizard-occasionally he really could be kind) and away from their Elven escort. Bilbo was later informed that Hadron and Aníror had watched him go through his normal morning stumbling and grumbling with vast (but silent and still) amusement as Gandalf skillfully kept Bilbo turned away from the rest of them with his staff.

Bilbo eventually woke enough to be trusted and was welcomed at the campfire, where he stared broodily into the flames. He wanted to mull over the conversation from the night before but the tea in the mornings was sometimes a little slower to get up to full rally and he found his mind was still too fuzzy, and the fire and his companions too distracting-especially Hadron and Aníror, whose vitality shone like a beacon.

The two elves noted his regard after a while and seemed to be very uncomfortable with it. Gandalf huffed when he noticed and gently tugged Bilbo’s mug out of his hand to refill it.

“Thanks,” Bilbo groaned, raspy, and did his best to keep his attention on the flames.

By midmorning Bilbo was able to shake off his stupor and apologized to the elves. Relieved, they took his apologies gracefully, and were at ease once again.

At noon Elladan and Elrohir arrived with a large escort than the day before, and informed them that Lord Elrond had granted their request for an audience, but that Bilbo was going to be watched extremely closely. With the only sources of contagion being patrols that went out regularly, Rivendell had already been laid siege with the plague-if they allowed an infected individual into the city proper without precautions, and that individual got loose, they could be decimated.

“Makes sense,” Bilbo agreed. Wouldn’t want the Last Homely House East of the Sea to be overrun with...with...oh, all the gods, Gandalf said he was dead. Dead and still walking thanks to dark magic. Wrong. It was so wrong.

As they set off with the information that the escort would likely take a few hours, Bilbo tossed a healthy portion of leaves into his water canister to let them cold steep. He would not be caught in their city without what he needed at all times.

 

The valley was beautiful, and Bilbo felt his spirits lift a little as they passed it by. Something in the air dampened his misery and overwrought heart, soothing the aches that months of shambling numbly through life by rote had given him, and Bilbo found himself trying to remember to breathe regularly again, just to feel the movement in his chest and the cool air in his nose.

Gandalf looked at him from the corner of his eye, smiling with unadulterated kindness (for once in his life).

“You look better here,” the wizard told him. “More alive. It is the magic of the valley and its inhabitants, which encourages health and vigor in all who come through.”

“Beautiful,” Bilbo said wistfully. Lord Elrond would be a fool to allow him to stay for long, and he was certain nobody would want to speak much with him. And his Sindarin! He’d practiced for years with his mother, and now that he finally had a chance to test himself, his tongue was inclined to act like a brick in his mouth.

“Once things have settled further, we shall have to come back, so that you may while some time away here and see the things Belladonna no doubt told you tales of for yourself,” he said, staff scraping the dirt and rock over a swell in the road. Bilbo nodded, then, suddenly nervous, reached for his flask of extra tea and took a mouthful.

Rivendell itself was even more beautiful, and at the same time, not-the architecture and decor were designed to accentuate the natural setting, and acted as a setting for a jewel: beautiful, and masterful in its right, but not drawing attention to itself as much as to what it was made to highlight. The travelers and escort reached a rotunda cut into the side of the valley with beautifully smooth marble columns opened to the sky, the white of the marble serene against the brilliant blue of a cloudless sky and notched at intervals that appeared geometric but allowed flowering vines to twine along and up, softening the starkness of the hard stone. Three pools, lined at the bottom with dark grey and black smooth river rock, were fed from a stream that pattered into the uppermost pool with a quiet gurgle and filled each pool in turn. The uppermost pool with planted with some sort of water plant unknown to Bilbo, with small round leaves and lovely purple flowers; the middle pool was edged in waterlilies in luminous pinks and yellows and whites; and the bottom pool, deepest of the three, provided a home for water iris, of a similar hue as the plant in the top pool.

Enchanted, Bilbo wandered closer as Gandalf and the elves spoke softly amongst themselves in Sindarin (asking after Lord Elrond, he supposed). Drifting and darting in turn among the plants and river rock were tiny fish, beautiful in white with crimson accents, long, fan-like fins dancing when they moved quickly and moving softly as the finest linen in a summer breeze when the fish stalled.

The movement and color should have been extremely distracting in the dark way Bilbo was learning to fear. Instead, for once, he felt content to watch carefully, trying to memorize the movement and wrestle the words he knew lived in his heart back into his head and tongue and as always these days failing. It was bittersweet-he was once a decent poet and songsmith, and now could not compose a small verse about the most gorgeous sight he’d ever been privileged to behold.

“That proves it,” he sighed, and reached out to carefully touch wet marble before dropping his hand, sad.

“Indeed,” a smooth, unfamiliar voice agreed. Bilbo’s brain stopped, then rebooted and his attention swung to the tall male beside him who he recognized from Gandalf’s description and the circlet on his brow as Lord Elrond, ruler of Imladris.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he introduced himself with a bow-and, rushed, he overbalanced and fell flat on his face.

If Bilbo’s blood moved, he was sure he’d be blushing furiously in embarrassment. Dear sweet Eru. Why.

“Hello,” he mumbled, face-down on the floor, and wondered if he really ought to get back up.

“Up you get, Master Baggins,” Lord Elrond murmured, amusement lacing his tone, as he tugged the hobbit up a bit and then helped him to his feet.

“Balance is always off,” Bilbo apologized, wishing he had more coordination, better words, less sickness. Elrond simply nods regally, and raises a hand to show Bilbo back to the group.

“You see?” Gandalf demands immediately as they reach speaking range. Elrond smiles and nods, accepting.

“You were correct, Mithrandir,” he accedes, sounding pleased. “None of the normal aggression or other psychological symptoms. It may not work on our kind at all, but it is worth trying, especially on the other great races whose symptoms are more similar.” Gandalf looks smug and flashes that knowing grin.

“Master Baggins,” Elrond turns to Bilbo, and suddenly formality is in every line of his face and note of his voice. “Would you share your secrets? There are many in the valley and beyond who have much need for the herb which keeps you in your right mind.”

“Of course!” Bilbo stammers after a stunned moment of silence. Why on earth does he need to ask, he wonders. Like Bilbo would keep this to himself, to hobbits, when there are so many-his neighbors, the girls in Bree, the dying (dying!) elves of this valley-who are in need? “Of course. Please. Here.”

He slipped his pack to the ground hastily, tossing the few things had aside, and pulled out a small clipping which he’d not yet denuded of its leaves for tea, and thrust it towards a startled Elrond desperately.

“Brickleberry,” he enunciated carefully over the sudden need to rush, quick, get this man the cure so his people would be treated. “Make into tea. Cold or hot brew. A cup every three or four hours for hobbits, maybe more for elves.”

Surprised, Elrond looked at the small man standing before him and then down at his hands, holding a clipping of a bush he recognized to grow quite inedible fruits in his hands.

“This grows wild here,” he said reverently. “It is, though different in form, closely related to some of our healing herbs, particularly...athelas.” The reverent look turned pensive, a troubled thought stealing across his face before he gently shook it off.

“We shall go see if this is helpful at once,” he announced. “Bilbo Baggins, we owe you a debt for your willingness to help, and may yet owe you a greater one still. Please feel free to explore Rivendell, though for everyone’s safety I advise you stay with someone you know.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo replied gratefully, heart swelling at the prospect of seeing more of the city. Elrond nodded sharply and strode off, a healer’s haste in his gait.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for a beta or just someone to help with storyline and general critique. Any comments along those lines would be greatly appreciated as well. Sorry it's a day late, and I hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would like to beta for me I'd greatly appreciate it! Just drop me a line on here and let me know. Thank you!


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